26 janv. 2015


Late night, beautiful night, with inspiring people, and yet all I could come up with when I started writing was this depressing little poem... Still, I share it, because it's what I promised myself I would do more of this year... 

I'm like a haunted house
full of memories and shadows
of regrets and bad aftertastes.
I'm a room full of shadows
of secrets and unsaid words.
I'm like a music box that's forgotten its tune.
I'm a carousel that stopped turning long ago
that hasn't heard the peel of a child's laughter in too long.
I'm like a haunted house
full of empty rooms and hollow hallways
that even the ghosts have abandoned. 

7 janv. 2015

Hope - a very short story

J'ai les émotions à fleur de peau aujourd'hui, après les événements à Paris. Je n'ai pas les mots pour dire comment je me sens par rapport à l'état de notre monde, mais j'avais besoin d'écrire. 
So, here's a very short story about hope... or something. 

Give me your hand - she said to me.
We'll dance into the sunrise.
She was young. She was Hope. She was Joy.
And I was an old man. I'd forgotten how to dance and I was headed towards the sunset.

Come with me - she said once more.
I can make you love again.
But I'd forgotten how to love, and the pain I'd gathered through the years was too deeply etched into my wrinkles. There was no room left in me for love. Or hope. Or joy.

Hold my hand - she said.
We'll jump over the fire.
But the fires of youth had all been burned, and nothing was left for me but ashes in my mouth, and an aftertaste of regret.

Join us - she said
As she pointed behind me, towards a crowd of daffodils dancing in the breeze.
But I'd long ago forgotten the daffodils which delight the mind of the poet. Poetry is for fools and lovers, and I was neither.

Kiss me - she laughed.
And her lips were pink, and full, and lovely.
And so I kissed her
And took her hand
And jumped over the fire.